The Virtue to Which We Aspire
by varlovian
Summary: Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. Some minds, once broken, will never be the same again. (Post-XM:FC, Charles/Erik, Fix-It.)


I'd like to thank my brilliant, tireless, long-suffering beta Emma, aka. _fandomlicious_, who sidled into Virtue sometime around the "oh my god what am I doing I can't write something this big" part, and has battled with it to the very end. I'd also like to send all my love and kudos to my gorgeous artist, _yehram_, whose art for this story is absolutely incredible, and will be added to my profile page when this story is fully posted.

* * *

**THE VIRTUE TO WHICH WE ASPIRE**

Chapter One:  
_A Library In Chaos_

They found him on the side of the road, a mile and a half away from the smoldering ruins of the CIA facility, bruised and bloodied. They burst forth from black-red tendrils of smoke like leviathans from the sea, equal parts awesome and terrifying, gathering their bearings as he staggered along the wayside. His body stiffened at their approach, bracing for attack, but it never came.

In its place was a whisper, a name. The mouth that spoke it seemed to hesitate in surprise, the word slipping by in a low, quiet rumble, thick with concern. It possessed none of the sharp, barbed edges he had grown accustom to, none of the sour threats or fevered pitch of an argument thrown way out of hand. Instead it was soft, almost reverent.

"Charles?"

He flinched, feet stuttering as the sound opened the floodgates in his mind. His control was shot, decimated, shields lying in tatters at the base of his skull, coalescing in a sharp throb of pain that persisted even as the rest of his body fell numb. The thoughts sliced through the ragged hole in his head, cutting deep, but the importance of putting one foot in front of the other was embedded deeper still. The only thing he had left, the only thing that hadn't been taken from him, was his resolve to keep moving. He feared what he would become if he lost it; that last, fragile strand of reality was his only tether to the world, his surroundings, _his sanity_. He had to keep going, had to keep pushing. The moment he stopped, it was over. All of it. There was nothing behind him but rubble, the crumbling foundations of his former life...

He had to keep going, he _had_ to, but his breath was coming out in short, sharp pants and the pain in his head intensified with every step. Sunspots danced across his vision as the world unfurled around him in a kaleidoscope of white-silver-blue. He shut his eyes, balled his shaking hands into fists and breathed heavily through his nose. When he opened them again, he saw lights. His throat ran dry at the sensation, at the utter absurdity of this white-grey landscape, endless and unbound. He dug his fingernails into the centre of his palm, biting crescent moons into the skin. It stung—a quick, sharp pulse between heartbeats—but achieved its purpose as the world bled back into focus.

The light gave way to the black of the road and the thick, brown mud caked over his feet. He saw the worn track ahead of him, chasing the highway, and the sun setting low on the horizon. Smoke and ash thickened the air all around him. His breath stuttered to a halt, because there they were. The Brotherhood, marching towards him.

Coming for him.

He stopped walking.

The moment his feet slowed, roiling pain blossomed between his eyes and he knew. This was it. The final step. He was moments away from total collapse, had been skirting the edge of it for days. He didn't want this to stop, didn't want the feeling in his legs to ebb away until it was replaced by exactly nothing, didn't want the emptiness that struck hard and deep, that reminded him how alone he truly was. But it had come.

His legs faltered beneath him, began to buckle, only he didn't fall. A hand had shot out not a moment too soon, long fingers tightening like bands over his skin. He looked up through the matted strands of hair plastered to his forehead by the sweat on his brow, deathly pale and shaking. Had he any energy left, he would have been stunned at what he found there.

Erik stared at him, eyebrows furrowed, concern etched deep into the lines of his face. His mouth was slightly open, pulled down at the corners, covered in part by Shaw's helmet, painted in alternate shades of purple and red. He wanted to trace its sharp edges with the pad of his thumb, to worry his fingers underneath the brim and push at it until it was gone, until it came free in his hands and the familiar rumble of Erik's thoughts lingered heavy in his head. He'd lifted his hand to do so, but aborted the motion. Erik would pull away in anger and disgust, and where would that leave him? Stranded on the roadside, in the dirt, with ash in his hair and the taste of blood, thick and cloying, on his lips.

Alone, like he was before.

In there.

He wrenched his gaze from Erik's as the world started to spin, transforming everything into a sickening blur of color that refused to stabilize. Erik's hands fumbled to keep a hold of him, but his legs offered no support as the muscles grew slack and unresponsive. His body seemed determined to drive him to the ground by any means possible, brain unable to compete with the sheer volume of impulses it was receiving. There was the familiar flash-bang of static erupting in his field of vision and the ringing of bells, loud and clanging, in his ears.

"Charles," Erik's voice, soft and accented, swept over the panic in his mind like a balm. He closed his eyes, sinking further into the sensation, letting it still his breathing. He was under for what felt like an eternity, a scant few seconds in reality. Erik spoke again as if he had never stopped; his voice was harder this time, urgent. "Charles—_look_ at me."

He tried to obey him and discovered that he couldn't. He stared glassily at the ground beneath him instead, static flashing before his eyes, accompanied by a weariness that wore him to the bone. He heard somebody sigh, followed by a pair of leather-clad arms around his waist that lifted him bodily in the air. He was sent crashing back into the broad plateau of Erik's chest, clipping the side of his head on the helmet.

Pain lanced from the point of impact, cold and sharp. He gasped for the breath that the collision had robbed from him, breathing in until his lungs were fit to burst. The air was tinged with ash and dust, which burnt a path down his throat. Gloved fingers prodded at the back of his head for any sign of an injury and, upon finding none, moved forward to cup his cheek. Erik rubbed circles, small and concentric, into the skin with his thumb, before allowing him to tuck his face into his neck. He inched closer to the heat that Erik seemed to radiate in waves, nose settling at the hinge of his jaw where the warmth was the strongest. Underneath the layer of sweat, copper and grit was a smell that was all Erik. Heady and exotic, he smelt of crushed spice and silver needle, currant and cigarette smoke. It was intoxicating.

Even with the arms holding him tightly, the scent setting his nerve endings alight and the rabbit-fast beating of Erik's heart in his ear to soothe away the ache of his unresponsive body, he was slipping further away. Erik was speaking, barking out orders, and his voice grew more and more distant with every passing moment. His stomach bottomed out at the same time as his head, oblivion opening its arms to greet him. He tried to fight but couldn't. He'd done all he could, fought all he could. It wasn't enough. The sweat-slicked feeling of disorientation and dread had pushed him to his limit. He was done.

"Charles?"

As the darkness reached up to swallow him he had a single, final thought:

_Not Charles. Not anymore._

* * *

Charles woke to the sound of voices in the periphery of his thoughts, both silent and spoken.

They were loud, unbearably so—a fact he attributed to the distinct lack of shielding throughout his mind. He couldn't function in the din, so he set about the exhausting task of first erecting, then strengthening a barrier around him, feeding wave after wave of psionic energy into its construction. It was a delicate procedure, taking the better part of twenty minutes to weave all the way through, and by the time he'd finished he was ready to fall straight back to sleep again.

But the voices spoke softer now, and the minds within his reach where nowhere near as volatile. He allowed only surface thoughts to remain, and chose to single out what people were saying as opposed to what they were thinking.

He nearly gave himself away in surprise when he realized that the conversation being carried out by his bedside was between Raven and Emma Frost. The thick, unyielding void of Erik's telepath-proof helmet lingered in the doorway as its wearer spoke intermittently to the both of them. He reined in his reaction to their voices, managed to pass by unnoticed to all but Emma, who had clued in long before then.

_'Just a moment, sugar,'_ came the sickly-sweet drawl of her thoughts projected into his mind, '_the adults are talking.'_

Charles laughed, still a bit stunned by this turn of events.

The sound echoed in the no-man's land that existed between their thoughts, the only place they felt comfortable speaking to one another: on neutral ground. He didn't trust Emma Frost any more than she trusted him—which was to say, not at all—but despite their differences and the contrasting ways in which they viewed their mutual gifts, they appeared to share the same self-depreciating humor. He never assumed he was above his fellow mutants, far from it, but the universal distrust in which they approached telepathy regardless of how open they were of other mutations was a quirk that Charles couldn't help but make fun of. As he called it, there were only two choices in the matter: he could either make fun of it or get incredibly bitter. He chose the former. All conflict aside, he was genuinely pleased to know that Emma felt the same. Bitterness would do them no favors here. Except… the imprint was always there, tucked away in the dustiest corner of the highest shelf of a mind. He saw an echo of that resentment there, and knew without following that she'd discovered the same in him.

(It was buried deep, under layer upon layer of previous experience, reason and analysis that spoke volumes of his acceptance but none of his understanding. How could you understand when somebody rejected such a vital part of you? Could you ever, really?)

'_Oh, honey,' _she projected with a soft tut. '_Such negative thoughts. We're only the ones our own kind will turn on once the humans are gone.'_

Charles sighed. He didn't raise the obvious issue—that she was reading his thoughts uninvited—because unlike everybody else, he had already planned for the eventuality. They both had. Anything vital was tucked behind heavily fortified constructs of their own creation. Even earlier, when his shields had been all but obliterated, the lockboxes remained sealed shut, away from prying eyes. Unless Emma Frost was playing on a whole new level of telepathic warfare, nothing was getting past that stronghold. Not on his watch.

'_I love that you think that way,'_ she cooed, utterly unrepentant. '_It's cute. I like the one about me being at a whole new level. Let's try it out someday. It'll be fun. Well, I say fun, when I actually mean incredibly unpleasant for you, but you understand.'_

He did.

'_I do,'_ he sent, tentatively. He felt her affirmation of the thought, and continued to project. God, but he hadn't done this in _years, _and never with another telepath. '_Considering our current circumstances, I'll have to take a rain check on your... invitation, but you understand.'_

There was a brief flare of amusement. '_Using my own words against me, Professor? I'm impressed.' _She really, really wasn't. '_I do like you, though, in the way that only adversaries can pull off without becoming unbearably annoying. So I'm going to give you a warning. In about half a minute, everybody's going to know you're awake. Talk soon.'_

The 'because I'm going to tell them' went unsaid, but Charles was surprisingly okay with that. He was rather complacent, actually, though it had less to do with her rebuttal and more to do with the fact that while she'd been busy during her perusal of his mind, he'd been conducting an investigation of his own into hers. Namely, her memories on finding him. He had to see what they knew and what they… didn't.

It was important.

He revisited the Brotherhood's untimely arrival at the CIA facility, which led them on a trail directly to him. Emma hadn't been present for that particular mission, but had lifted the thought from someone else's mind. Azazel's, Charles presumed, by the soft litany of Russian that made up his thoughts and the way he leaned forward ever so slightly, as if accounting for a third limb of some sort, hovering at the lower back. A tail, he realized, a little awed at the thought. Charles felt the ghost sensation of it waving from side to side, something that both perturbed and utterly captivated him. It held his focus until he realized they were walking forward—towards _him,_ limping slowly along the road. Charles flinched, trying not to spend too long staring at his own self but unable to look away.

To say he looked awful was a vast understatement. He wore a thin, white t-shirt and sweatpants of the same material. Both were positively filthy, suffering minor wear and tear in some places and completely ripped apart in others. Dirt and sweat stained the cloth, along with blood. It was mostly his, he knew, from the various cuts and bruises he had collected on the way out of the facility and not including the deeper, internal scarring he'd received from the battery of tests they'd put him through during his incarceration—which was the nice way of saying that they beat the crap out of you until your mutation manifested, threatening your life, your home, your _family_ if you didn't grin and bear it. Charles hadn't broken until much, much later, when there was no one around to hear him beg but the silent rumination of his own thoughts. But the blood, some of it hadn't been his. Some of it had belonged to—well, other people. He winced within the memory, pushing the notion aside in hope of focusing on the bigger picture, which was how he'd ended up here.

The man in the memory stopped walking all of a sudden, a broken look crossing over his dirt-stained face. Charles bit his lower lip at the mud caked over his feet, the way his legs fell right out underneath him and how Erik propelled his own body to catch him in time. Charles wasn't sure how he felt about that one, or the breathy sigh that Raven released by his side.

"Charles," he heard Erik whisper, "_look at me._"

But he didn't respond, not even when Erik hoisted him up and in, rested his chin atop the filthy, matted strands of hair stuck to Charles' head. He couldn't remember what he was thinking at that point, couldn't remember anything before that, either, besides waking up in his cell like he had every day for the eleven days he'd been there. "Charles?" Erik said his name like it was a question he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer to. He looked concerned, face slack in a way that Charles had seen only once before. On the beach in Cuba, after he'd been shot.

_Whatever happened couldn't have been worse than that_, he thought, flinching. _Nothing was worse than that._

So why couldn't he remember?

The Charles in Erik's arms went still. From her place right next to him—her place next to Azazel—Raven took a hesitant step forward, a look of conflict etched deep into her face. "Magneto."

Erik's head snapped up and his shoulders straightened. He gathered Charles' body in his arms and stood, lifting them both like he weight nothing. A new line of tension appeared down his back and the look in his eyes was cold and calculated. In an instant, he became a whole other person, a complete stranger to Charles. _You must be Magneto, _he thought with a frown._ I don't believe we've had the pleasure._

"Azazel!" Erik barked. Charles felt Azazel's senses sharpen as he listened intently for his orders. "Take us back, _now_."

The memory cut off abruptly, wrenching him back into consciousness. He came to in what appeared to be a makeshift hospital bed, thin mattress suspended on a series of metal struts, with a sheet folded neatly under his arms and several pillows framing his head.

Charles stared blearily at the ceiling. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat dampening his brow. His sheets were soggy and uncomfortable. He struggled with them, eventually kicking them off altogether. Then the meaning behind the action caught up to him and he gasped.

His legs. His legs were—

_Oh my god._

His big toe twitched of its own accord. His left foot shifted in time with the sluggish mental command he sent it. He rolled his ankle, rapt by the ripple of motion that followed, and utterly confounded at the same time. He didn't know how to process this. He didn't know at all. It felt too good to be true—was it? Was this a fluke, a dream? He shook, suddenly terrified at the thought that this was all in his head, like so many things had been before. How could he trust this? How could he trust _anything_?

"Five minutes. Then you leave him to rest. Do you understand?"

Erik's voice echoed in the confines of the room. Charles turned his head quick enough to see him disappear through the threshold of the door, leaving Charles alone with—

"Raven?"

Raven glided gracefully into the room. She was in her natural form, rippled and blue and… as naked as the day she was born. Charles averted his eyes immediately, choosing to stare at her face instead. He flinched in the same instant, realizing that she might take offense to the gesture and interpret his brotherly embarrassment as obstinacy or disgust, and resisted the urge to flinch _again_ when he realized in turn that his previous flinch could be equally, if not more, misconstrued.

Charles expected a lot of things to happen then, braced for them even. What he didn't expect, however, was for Raven's cheeks to darken as she blushed, a deep smudge of cerulean across her raised skin. Her feet stuttered across the floor on their way to him and she changed directions all of a sudden, walking over to a cupboard near the desk and pulling out what appeared to be an extra hospital gown. She threw it over her head, slipping her arms through the short sleeves, head popping out at the top in a sudden splash of red and blue. She bounced around to allow the fabric to settle, rolling her shoulders until it covered most of her body, and made her way back to him.

"Better?" she asked, looking nervous all of a sudden.

Charles coughed, cleared his throat. He felt overwhelmed. He wondered if he looked it, too, and supposed he did. "Yes, thank you."

She walked over to the bed neighboring his, sitting in the small space between the wall and the metal handrail. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him carefully. Charles bit his lip. Raven bit hers too. They both drew in a deep breath.

"Charles, I—"

"Raven—"

They stammered to a stop at precisely the same time.

Despite the awkwardness of the conversation, Charles couldn't help the fond smile that dawned on his face as he was reminded not of the crazy few months which led to their separation, but all the years before. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Raven glanced up in surprise, a look so fleeting he'd have missed it if he wasn't staring right at her. She nodded, more for her sake than for his, as if she was affirming something, a private thought perhaps. She sighed, running her fingers through her short crop of bright red hair, tugging at it in frustration. "Okay, I've got nothing."

"I can carry the conversation for the both of us if you'd like?" Charles asked, ribbing her gently. It was an obvious attempt to make her smile, but he'd abandoned all thought of subtlety. Cunning wouldn't win his battle for him. He had to win it himself.

Her lips twitched, once, and stayed that way. It was barely visible, but there. Charles took it as a victory.

"So," he began, slowly, in hope of avoiding the same situation as before. "'Mystique'?"

She nodded.

Charles watched as a transformation took place all on its own, without the influence of her shape-shifting abilities. Her shoulders straightened of their own accord, pushing her up a little higher where she sat. The answer came to him out of the blue. The name Mystique gave her power—power, confidence and a clear distinction between past and present. Charles knew just how important a fresh start could be, a new face for a new world. This was something she clearly felt she needed and while Charles didn't particularly agree with the manner in which she was establishing that name, it made her happy and that was enough for him.

"It suits you," he said, attempting to sound nonchalant but failing miserably. "I can't remember if I ever told you that."

He felt a bit awkward, saying that. But Raven smiled at him—an honest to god _smile,_ with upturned lips and everything—and Charles would say all the ridiculously tacky things in the world if it meant she'd smile like that more often.

"You didn't," she replied, still smiling. "But thank you."

"You're welcome," he said automatically, voice strained. Then, the words just came tumbling out. "I've missed you, you know. I don't think I know how to function without you, especially not. Not _there._ The house isn't—it's big, and quiet, and hard. Without you. It isn't—isn't home."

Her face falling into turmoil, pain etched deep into the furrow of her brow. He'd never meant to upset her, but he didn't think that was it. His words didn't cause her sadness, only triggered it. Charles thought he might know where the sadness came from.

Raven, despite her magnificent ability to shape-shift, had never been very adept at change. For the longest time, all they'd had was each other. Losing her was like missing a limb, an ache that persisted long after the shock of his paralysis had faded. He saw her in everything he touched, in every nook and cranny in the house they'd once called home. Losing her was devastating, but Charles was older, hardened. He couldn't imagine how difficult it must have been for her, starting out in a new place with no one to talk to but Erik, who wasn't exactly the most forthcoming of people, through no fault of his own. But she'd persevered, and was stronger for it. It took a strength he wasn't sure she knew she possessed, but lit her up like a beacon inside, clear as day to anybody who chanced a look at her.

"_Charles," _she breathed on a sob, voice thick with emotion. She looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears, before dropping her face into her hands and sniffling, in an attempt to rein in her feelings. She breathed into her palms for a long moment. Then she raked her fingers through her hair and lifted her head to look at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. Charles ached to hold her, to gather her up in his arms like he had when they were children, to whisper stories in her ear and fairytales in her mind.

"There's so much I want to tell you, so much I _need_ to tell you, about me and about why I left. I can't—Charles, I can't."

She sounded so lost, so small. Her breath came out in ragged pants, and she pressed a hand feebly over her heart. She calmed down soon after that. It wasn't a panic attack, not a proper one. He hauled his body over the side of the bed, wincing a little at the pain in his lower body. He might have regained feeling in his legs, but the only thing he felt right now were the shards of agony slicing deep into his back, resonating through the muscles in his legs—muscles that hadn't been used properly in months. He grimaced, almost losing his balance, but made his way over to her on slow, shaking feet. He looped his arms over her shoulders and felt hers twine around his waist in return. She tucked her head into his neck and breathed him in. He couldn't have smelt pretty, but she didn't complain.

He pulled back and her nose wrinkled.

Charles sighed. Well, at least she hadn't said anything.

She took a step back. He followed her, until she took another.

"Please, just—let me get this out, okay?" Raven pleaded, placing her hands on his shoulders and using them to push him, firm but gently, back onto the bed. "I don't know if I'll be able to do that if you hug me right now."

Charles could only nod. His throat had run dry. Fear and contentment warred within his gut. They were talking again, actually talking as opposed to arguing, which was all they'd seemed to do in the week leading up to Cuba. But what did she have to say to him? He shuffled back until he felt his head hit the wall and motioned to the empty space at the end of the bed. Raven climbed into it, tucking her knees to her chest and folding her arms on top of them, resting her chin on her forearm and peeking up at him, nervous and uncoordinated.

He fixed her with a weak smile, which drove her to realize that in order for this conversation to take place she actually had to start speaking first. She stumbled a little trying to get there, but Charles was patient and Raven herself was, if nothing else, extremely strong minded.

She opened her mouth to speak, stuttered a few syllables and closed it again. Then she buried her head in the circle of her arms and sighed, loudly. When she lifted her face, her mouth was set and her eyes had hardened in determination.

She looked over to the side and began to speak, slow and steady.

"I was so, so angry at you for living in my head all the time that I never stopped to think that when I told you not to do it anymore you actually_listened_ to me," she said, voice shaking from the force of it. Charles said nothing, in hope that his silence rang true where his words could not. She needed support, not platitudes, and sometimes the best thing a friend could do was to listen. "I was already so angry at that, and I got even angrier when you didn't understand, when you weren't even trying to understand, except that you were. You just," she motioned to the air, choking back a laugh at the complete spontaneity of the gesture. "Hadn't gotten your facts straight.

"I loved you so much that your approval meant more to me than it should have. It meant more to me than my own happiness, feeling right in my own skin. I tried so hard to please you, and when that didn't work, I tried to please society instead."

Raven paused to take a deep breath, and looked at him for the first time since she'd started to speak. Her eyes remained fixated on his, amber irises reflecting the light above and a fire that burned from within, a fire that was all hers.

Her voice was harder now, battle-ready. "But they're never going to look at someone like me and see who I really am inside. Not until they get over themselves, and that's unlikely. Working with Magneto and the Brotherhood feels right in a way sitting at home or going out with friends never could. I'm not that person, Charles. I'm not that blonde little baby doll who'll sit in a corner all day and be coddled. You knew it too, long before I did. It's why you were so worried about me all the time, why you told me to be careful. I thought you were ashamed of me, of my appearance, that the blonde little girl I tried so hard to be was all you saw when you looked at me."

Her face twisted, as if the very thought caused her physical pain to think about. Charles wanted desperately to tell her that that wasn't what he'd meant at all, but the look on her face told him that she already knew. Surely enough, the first words out of her mouth confirmed it.

"That wasn't it, though, was it? You knew that life wasn't for me, that it could never _be_ for me. You looked at the world and all you saw were people that would take me away from you if they knew, that would hurt me in ways that kept you up at night trying desperately to find a way to keep me happy and keep me safe at the same time. But I won't be safe, not in that life and not in this one. At least here I have a chance to fight on my own terms, for a cause I truly believe in and that I know, deep down, you believe in just as fiercely."

She was breathing harshly by the end of it, wound tight from her feelings on the subject. Charles felt a similar coil in his heart, a spring just waiting for its catch to be released. Raven smiled at him, then, looking satisfied with what she saw. It was conviction, he realized, the type that lifted you up when nothing else could. The type that let you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what you were doing was right.

"I won't ask you to join me, Charles, because I know what you'll say. I'll respect your decision so long as you respect mine. But I will _never_ stop trying to make you see what I see," she added, eyes clouding over as if they were glimpsing a possible future where that exact scenario might occur. By the downward turn of her mouth, she didn't like what she saw. When she returned, however, she slipped straight back in to the righteousness of her tone. "You belong with us, Charles. With me."

Then she smiled the same, mischievous smile that featured in so many of his warmest, if not troublesome, memories. He was looking at his sister, the rascal, and a stranger, the rebel, all in one. He didn't know whether to be full of pride or terrified.

"I think it's time for that hug now," said Charles, with an eyebrow raised in her direction. There'd be time to talk more about this later, on the things that frightened them, on everything they still had yet to apologize for and to make their amends. Then there was the topic of Erik, of what happened now, of what had happened to him only a few hours prior and haunted him still. But it could wait.

It had to wait.

Raven dived into his arms like she'd never left, slotting her body into every hollow space he had until there was nothing but warmth and scratchy hospital gowns between them. It felt like everything he needed to appease the churning waves of discontent in the back of his head. To assuage the voice that called to him, that screamed his name and reminded him that his part in this was far from over. To soothe the raw nerve that was his fear over the newfound feeling in his legs, an emotion that felt perilously close to hope. Raven calmed the tide, or worried incessantly at it until the waters had no choice but to still under her hand. Holding her felt like peace.

It felt like coming home.

* * *

_Bodies litter the gnarled, twisted wreck of the main laboratory building, some half-burnt from the chemical fire that had spread and others in various states of dismemberment and decay. Charles shudders, toes a pair of glasses with his feet. He doesn't want to know what that is he just stepped in, or the slick of red on his pant leg. All he wants is to go home. Home or somewhere else far, far away._

_But not here. Not ever here._

_Not again._

_There's someone standing calmly, silently in the haze. He locks eyes with them, watches them watch him. They step forward, features unidentifiable in the smoke, but Charles can sense their thoughts. There's an overwhelming amount of sincerity, so strong it hurts. Whoever they were—whoever they are—they feel nothing but a passing remorse for these people, for these poor, poor souls._

You mean the poor souls that abducted you,_ says a voice in the back of his head. _That _beat_ you. Those poor souls?

_Yes._

_Those poor souls._

_He can't believe it either. For all intents and purposes, he should be thankful. He's free to leave, free to carry about his normal life. Except… his life was never going to be normal again, was it? If it ever was. It makes him sadder than he thought he could ever be that his first instinct is to answer that statement with a 'no'. No, his life is not and has never been normal. He's a telepath; he was born a freak of nature. He knew when somebody was lying to him, knew their deepest and most intimate thoughts. That one had been the truth._

_He is never normal. Could never be normal._

_Has he even tried?_

_Charles thinks of Oxford, of Raven and of masks. He thinks, after this, that he will need a few masks of his own. For obscurity._

_For protection._

_His mysterious someone takes another step forward, through the smoke, and Charles gets the impression of silver-blue eyes sunken into gaunt, pale skin. There's not much else after that but darkness, as a large object swings out of nowhere and hits him square in the back of the head. He crumples, looking up at the figure above him with a look of absolute betrayal on his face. Charles' only thought is that he desperately hopes he didn't just fall into somebody's intestines because no. Just no._

_There's nothing but ash and dust beneath his fingertips, in his mouth when he breathes, blurring his vision when he blinks. All those people, all those thoughts—nothing but a breath, _his _breath. Perhaps it's fitting, for what they put him through. Perhaps it's justice._

_He laughs until he passes out, and laughs still..._

_..._

* * *

Charles came to an interminable time later to the feeling of eyes skating across his body, as if committing his features to memory. Raven was curled at his side, face relaxed and sleep-dumb. He turned his head to the door, to see a figure lingering in the threshold there, nearly indistinguishable from the shadows on either side of them. He felt something else there as well, a barrier his telepathy couldn't penetrate, like a shield of some sorts.

Or a helmet.

Whatever concern he felt drained out of his body in an instant. Charles relaxed, a small smile playing on his lips.

He had no idea what the time was, but the lights were off and his eyelids were already beginning to droop. He saw the figure by the door cock its head to the side, watching him intently. He turned his body into Raven's and stroked the fine, red hair off her forehead. His visitor kicked off the side of the doorframe, and hesitated.

Charles saw his chance, and took it.

"Goodnight, Erik."

Erik receded into the hallway without a word, leaving Charles to his sister. Charles shut his eyes, buried his face in his pillow, and fell deep.

He didn't dream.

* * *

When Emma Frost swept into the room wearing a zipped trench coat, heels and very little else, Charles took a moment to mourn the death of practicality. Between Emma's white wardrobe and the bold ensemble Erik wore—which, minus that ridiculous helmet, actually looked quite dashing—Charles was increasingly surprised by their lack of presence in the newspapers. He supposed Azazel's teleportation skills were proficient enough that they could escape without being seen, but hiding was never Erik's forte. Neither, it seemed, was it Emma's.

Charles opened his mouth to greet her, even as he had little to no idea what he'd actually say. Before he had a chance to speak, however, Raven erupted in a flurry of motion beside him. When Charles looked at her quizzically, she gave him a sheepish grin and shuffled off the bed. Ah, he thought. Somewhere to be, then. It shouldn't have been surprising, not after everything they'd talked about, but it was. Under his tutelage, he'd gotten used to her bending the rules a little. It was odd, then, to see her bow to authority without question. He watched her carefully for any signs of discontent as she gathered her things and cleared out. He found none.

Raven lingered at the threshold, pebbled blue fingers gripping the doorframe until Charles smiled at her and nodded; a silent confirmation that everything would be all right. She waved at him, cast a quick look at Emma and left.

_'Be careful, Charles,'_ she projected to him.

Charles felt a rush of warmth at her concern. '_Always.'_

When Raven drifted out of range, Emma turned the full weight of her gaze on Charles. Her eyes bored into him like twin peaks of diamond drilling through his skull, intent on creating a hole in his head so she could reach in and snatch his thoughts at will. Charles—who had been awake for hours just contemplating his situation, and the tangle of memories he had yet to unravel—stared at her patiently. He had nothing to fear from her or her telepathy, not when his strength was returning so quickly, but he heeded Raven's warning nonetheless.

"I think it's time we had a little chat, Professor."

"As do I, Miss Frost," he replied with an accommodating smile. He'd been expecting this. "Feel free to…"

He trailed off, distracted by a deep feeling of discontent growing low in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't breach Emma's mind without her realizing, but he could sense her surface thoughts. There would be no context, no link between them, but he was confident enough in his own abilities to try it anyway. Her emotions washed over him, the connection between them distorted but there. Charles felt a surprise that wasn't his own, followed by a confusion that was equally as foreign.

Then, he felt fear.

There was only a hint of it, in the far recesses of her mind. But it caught like a spark in a dry grass field.

Charles drew back into the relative peace of his own thoughts. If it weren't for his telepathy, he honestly wouldn't have noticed. Emma's face was indecipherable, schooled into a mask of total indifference, as hard as the rock her body crystallized into.

"Not here," she said impatiently, in response to his invitation. "Magneto is expecting you."

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and left with a sharp turn of her heels against the hard floor. Her footsteps echoed down the hall until they faded into silence and for the first time since they rescued him, Charles Xavier was alone.

His first order of business was to gather up every modicum of emotion he felt regarding the sudden and frankly miraculous feeling in his legs and stuff it, forcefully, into a dark corner in the back of his head. There was already too much for him to think about without adding that to the list. Feeling his toes twitch under the blanket was overwhelming enough, not to mention earlier when he actually _stood_ in order to hug Raven. But he'd been exhausted when he'd done that, a natural damper on his reactions. Now he was anything but. Charles' entire body hummed with energy, radiating it in waves. He wasn't about to let the residual stress of jumping from one extreme to the other bring him down. He could break down later, after his conversation with Erik if he needed to, away from prying eyes.

Charles kicked off the blankets because he could. He slid from the bed and landed square on his feet to discover that standing so quickly wasn't such a great idea. His muscles, while receiving their fair share of exercise in the past few days, had barely moved at all in the nine months beforehand. The pain was sharp, intense and absolutely breathtaking. He felt his knees buckle, body pitching forward in an arc—

_Grit. Grit everywhere. Against his clothes, in his hair, thickening on his tongue. It tastes like death, like burnt flesh and the horrid, overwhelming heat of the open fire as it spreads. He swallows their screams, feels their anguished voices resonate deep in his belly. And it isn't like death, it _is_death. Bodies are breaking, fracturing, shattering to pieces all around him. They weep in pools of crimson at his feet, slick against his wriggling toes as he presses forward. The grit is black and grey and blinding. He takes a step but there is no ground to meet him. His foot slips and then he's falling. Falling, into the sky. Falling, into the black bathed red. Falling, into the wide, open fields. Falling…_

In the final instant before collision, his arm shot out to grip the metal railing on the bed.

Charles froze as his vision doubled. The memory burned fresh in his mind, a translucent film over everything he saw. The ground beneath him rose up to consume him whole but he chased away the sensation with a jerk of his head. It wasn't time to face those demons yet.

He shut his eyes and called upon the well of calm that existed within. The knowledge he had of his body's energies allowed him to slip into a deeper state of being, to find his centre and let that control translate into his movements. He took a deep breath and the tremors subsided. A restless, giddy feeling rose in their place. He wanted to stand, to walk, to jump, to run. He wanted to do all those things, all the time, and the best part about it was...

He could.

Charles made the walk to the other side of the room with short, tentative steps. He reached the desk, where a small pile of neatly pressed clothes was set out for him. He ran a finger down the familiar black turtleneck and smiled.

"Thank you, Erik," he said to the open air around him.

The idea of familiarity, of home, made him think of New York and the team he'd left behind. Charles made a promise to get into contact with them as soon as possible, after his meeting. He didn't know if the Brotherhood would condone him bringing in the X-Men, but if they wanted to work with him he'd accept nothing but a full, collaborative effort. He was nobody's prisoner, not anymore.

Charles slipped out of his clothes, showered in the adjoining bathroom and towelled his body dry almost mechanically. His hands trembled as the soft fabric of the turtleneck rubbed gently over his face. Erik's scent was thick and unyielding all around him. Charles inhaled deeply and felt his breath catch. It took him a few extra seconds to pull on the shirt and fold over the collar, but they were seconds well spent.

Charles stepped into the hall, eyed the nondescript cut of the walls before him. He cleared the threshold of the door and stopped in his tracks when he realized he had no idea where he needed to be. Emma might have forgotten, or left without telling him out of spite, and Raven hadn't revealed anything about where they were staying. Charles shut his eyes and withdrew to the solid line of tranquillity in his chest, hands resting on the wall at either side of him for stability. He focused inwards, on his own mind, and unravelled his senses like a tightly-rolled sheet.

His awareness extended slowly throughout the hall, filling every inch of empty space with its weight. He cast out in all directions—past the stone and metal construct, through the walls and into the heart of the complex. He found Raven immediately, tag-teaming with Azazel against Angel and Riptide, thoughts stretched taunt over the flurry of punches, kicks and sweeps she was executing while simultaneously keeping an eye on her defence. Charles passed her by, surprised but pleased by the progress she was making.

He found his anchor in a room hidden deep within the compound, where the multi-faceted surface of Emma's diamond mind gleamed brightly at him. She didn't say or do anything, but she didn't need to. He had found her.

Charles made his way around the outer rim of the base in double time, heading towards her. He followed the cues from his own brain—arrows and lights leading him deep into the complex, disappearing around sharp bends and narrow corridors.

It felt utterly bizarre, being on his feet again, and it certainly wasn't perfect. He ached in strange places, places that had never so much as cramped before, but a little pain was well worth the reward. He could walk again. It felt like a dream and, for a terrifying instant, Charles entertained the possibility that it was.

His feet slowed to a stop at the thought. He shook his head to purge it but it clung on, resilient.

No, this was real. This _had_ to be real.

He pressed his fingers to his temples and focused every ounce of willpower he had on forcing the room to shift, to draw away from whatever fabrication his mind had concocted. Nothing happened. He pushed harder, searching for something—anything—that might lend to the theory that this was a fantasy, an unreality of some sort. His heart stuttered in his chest, beating faster and faster. Blood pulsed through his veins, rushing. Heat flooded his cheeks, face red and hot, and his breath echoed in short, sharp pants—

"I don't understand."

Charles blinked back to reality to find his nails cutting into the side of his head. He pried them off, winced at the sudden sting.

That voice brought him back. _Erik's_ voice brought him back. But it wasn't what caught his attention, not for long. Charles didn't just hear Erik speaking—he heard him thinking as well. Erik's thoughts, Erik's mind, open for the world to hear. For _him_ to hear.

It was in that moment that Charles knew without any doubt that everything he'd experienced was real. The base, his escape, the feeling in his legs—they were no dream. These walls, sculpted out of metal by Erik, were solid. They were real, they had to be, because there was no way that Charles' subconscious could ever imitate the impression that Erik Lensherr's mind left on him. It was like a vicious cyclone of shrapnel and heat, roiling waves of bronze and silver.

Charles shut his eyes, resting in the space between his thoughts and Erik's for a single, perfect instant. Nothing could recreate the absolute passion that drove Erik's every move, the conviction and the drive. There was anger, yes, but it was far from the directionless rage it had been when they'd first met. He had honed it, tapered to a point that drove at its target with single-minded determination.

He stepped forward, towards the door. He was about to enter when another voice spoke.

"I was trained to rip through any line of defense, but my specialty was enemy telepaths. So believe me when I say that nobody—not even your precious Xavier—can shield that well. Not against another telepath, and certainly not against me. I've never seen anything like it and believe me, dear, I've seen it all."

Emma paused, as if contemplating her next words very carefully.

"There's something he's not telling us and you need to find out what."

She broadcasted her irritation in waves. If the vague sense of discomfort in Erik's fire-bright mind was any indication, he wasn't the only one experiencing the backlash. Lingering underneath the frustration she wore was the cold, hard fear he read off her earlier. He didn't like the picture forming in his head. From what he understood, Emma was afraid. Of _him_.

Erik echoed Charles' incredulity, albeit for different reasons. "_I_ need to find out?"

Charles knew without looking that Erik was staring at Emma with eyes full of flint, jagged and hard. Emma, on the other hand, seemed driven enough by her own concern that she ignored the threat laced venomously in Erik's voice. Ignored it, or missed it entirely. Charles wasn't sure which idea scared him more—that she was so flippantly playing him, or that she was close to stumbling neck-deep in his anger.

"I told you," Emma said, impatiently. "I can't read him. You know him personally."

Erik's answering grunt was barely audible, backed up by a flare of annoyance at Emma and something else, something warm, when he thought of Charles. Charles longed to press himself against the barrier between them, to blur the lines until neither of them could tell where he ended and where Erik began. It was a dangerous thought, toxic, and Charles shuddered. He refused to see any benefit in that monstrosity of a helmet, but it was so much easier to _think_ when Erik had it on.

"We need that information," Emma pressed. Charles figured she was either very suicidal, or very desperate. Possibly both.

Erik's next words came out low and rough, verging on a growl.

"I know."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, sounding flippant. If Charles didn't know better, he'd be worried for her, but he did know better. Emma was baiting Erik on purpose, to get him to bend. He hoped for all their sake's that Erik didn't decide to break instead.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Erik hissed, sounding livid.

Emma scoffed and it was a testament to her ability that even that sounded ladylike. Her words, on the other hand, were anything but cordial.

"You're joking, right?" she asked Erik, allowing the full weight of her incredulity to settle in before continuing. "I've seen the way you look at him when you think he can't see you. Does he know you were watching over him last night?"

Charles started. So it hadn't been a dream. He recalled a stream of semi-conscious thought, interlaced with the thick, heavy fog of sleep, and a shadow settled heavily in the doorframe. He'd suspected it was Erik, had called to him, even. But now that it was confirmed, Charles couldn't stop the warmth that smoothed over his mind, or the tiny flicker of hope that ignited at the silence that followed.

The flicker of hope was pushed to the side all of a sudden by a rising sense of panic and dread as the hurricane of Erik's thoughts darkened in outrage. It splintered and broke. The fragmented glass and metal of his mind contracted to a razor-sharp point. It felt like time had stopped as the shards hung suspended in midair, the full force of Erik's frustration channeled into a psionic burst ready to strike. Charles had always suspected that Erik's mutation might one day expand to include psychic attacks as well, but he never expected to see something so refined so quickly. Charles tucked the observation away, a loose sheet in the thick tome that was his friendship with Erik.

Charles entered the room without further delay, before Erik did something they would probably all regret. He didn't think the other man was even conscious of the energy building within him, or what it might do to his mind if he was allowed to continue. He positioned himself at the edge of their vision. His eyes flickered between them, and Charles pursed his lips. "Am I interrupting something?"

Erik scanned Charles' face warily. His gaze softened as he took in the black turtleneck he was wearing, the sleeves a touch too large for his frame and the waistline tight and constricting. Charles was willing to wager, however, that the shirt would fit Erik perfectly. The slacks he'd pulled on afterwards fit just right, as did the pair of boots that accompanied the ensemble, brown leather cracked and faded with age.

"No," Erik said, once he was looking at Charles' face again.

Emma turned to face them both, hands on her hips. "Yes."

Charles stepped past them and took stock of his surroundings for the first time since he'd entered the room.

The base cut into the heart of a rock formation. The walls were rough and textured but weathered in a way that alluded to the use of technology—or, in the Brotherhood's case, a mutant. Charles' vote was on Riptide's ability to create whirlwinds. With the right support from Erik's magnetism manipulation and Emma's diamond form, it was a definite possibility. The corridors were reminiscent of old sandstone tunneling, only wider and with a darker rock. Everything else was metal, from the plating on the walls that concealed the base's wiring, to the vents that pumped oxygen through the compound.

The room they were standing in was empty apart from a large oak table and several chairs that littered the area. The ceiling was raised, cut high above their heads, and the only part of the room that hadn't been rubbed back yet. Stalactites hung suspended from the very top of it; like the bared teeth of a rabid dog, dangerous and sharp. Erik stood in front of the colossal table, Emma by his side. They watched him carefully, with twin looks of stony consideration. Charles cut to the chase, embarrassed by his distraction.

"You tried to read my mind?" he asked Emma, who nodded.

Her gaze was sharp with silent accusation. Erik's eyes danced between the two telepaths, from Emma to Charles and back again.

Emma's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"I haven't the faintest," he replied. It was the truth. He hadn't done anything, at least not intentionally. Emma didn't respond, but Charles hadn't expected her to. He didn't much care for her accusations. He wasn't shielding. If anything, his defense was sorely lacking.

He carded his fingers through his hair, considering, when he saw something on the very edge of his vision.

Charles locked eyes with Erik, who watched him unabashed. He reacted without an ounce of humility at being caught. His lips twitched when Charles found his gaze and held it. Charles knew he shouldn't trust the glint in Erik's eye but he did; it was exactly how Erik used to look at him before, in Westchester, over chess and a bottle of scotch. His entire body ached for it, for that camaraderie and friendship, for a time that existed free of lines and boundaries, of restrictions and lies. He ached for Erik, in old ways and new.

"I've been working on my shields since I woke up here, but I didn't get very far. They're nowhere near as effective as they were in Russia, where I know Miss Frost had no trouble finding me, but…"

He trailed off as an idea sparked in his head.

"Try again," he ordered. Emma stared at him with an air of total disbelief.

Charles sighed. "I'm serious. I didn't consciously choose this. If there's something wrong, I'd like to find out what."

She looked to Erik for permission, who nodded.

They stepped forward at the same time. Emma curled the fur collar of her coat over her shoulder and placed her hands on either side of his head. Her middle and index fingers slotted comfortably over his temples.

The world faded into static around them, and when Charles turned aside his gaze, it was to the warmth and familiarity of his own mind. The repository of all his knowledge stretched out in front of him, in front of them both. He drew away from Emma, further into the room where hard-back books lined the shelves. Designed from his library in Westchester, a haven for both himself and Raven as children, it was simultaneously one of the happiest and saddest places he'd ever known.

Emma made a startled sound behind him, enough to snap Charles out of the trance he was in. He turned to ask after her, but met only air.

She was gone.

Charles opened his eyes, back to the room and his audience.

"What is it?" he asked urgently, searching Emma's drawn features for any sign of pain or stress.

"I don't know," she replied, withdrawing her hands from his head. Apart from her shallow breathing and the slight widening of her eyes, she showed no indication of being affected. She faced Erik, her body straightening. Her voice retook the hard, impenetrable tone it had earlier.

"Whatever it is, it only seems to lock me out when I'm not in contact with Xavier. The moment he pulled away from my presence in his mind, it shut down all around me. I wasn't there long enough to find out who—or what—was behind it, though."

Charles opened his mouth to suggest they try again, both intrigued and troubled by her observations, but Erik held up a hand to silence him. They both knew how eager Charles was to investigate every facet of his ability. Erik didn't smile, but his eyes glittered with amusement when they met his.

"Later," said Erik in all seriousness. One side of his mouth twitched. "We have more important things to deal with right now."

Charles nodded, pursing his lips. "Of course."

Emma continued to watch him closely, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. He was impervious to her telepathy, something that he hadn't yet processed let alone understood. Charles knew that if he were in her position, he wouldn't have trusted himself either.

Charles walked over to where Erik rested against the edge of the table and dropped into the seat beside him. He crossed his legs, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"I know you must have questions, so…" he trailed off. He didn't know how—or where—to begin.

He needn't have worried. Erik was quick to pick up where he left off, drawing away from the table to pace in front of him.

"Do you remember what happened, when we found you?" he asked, stopping to fix Charles with a heavy stare.

He drew in a deep breath. "No, I don't. I…" Charles shut his eyes, clenched his hands into fists and tried as hard as possible to recall something—_anything_—that might help. From his own eyes, at least. Azazel's memory was clear and bright in his mind. The rest of it was a fleeting impression, light and sound with no context, no thought. "I remember putting one foot in front of the other, focusing on nothing but the ground beneath my feet. I could smell smoke, so thick it made me cough, but in the next moment it was gone."

"So you blacked out?"

He nodded. "I think so, yes."

Charles exchanged a look with Emma. From the corner of his eye, he saw Erik frown.

"I can tell from the expression on both your faces that this isn't a good thing," he stated, looking back and forth between the two of them. He settled on Emma, body turning to where she had sidled up to the wall, withdrawing herself from the conversation so that she could observe it properly, impartially. She wasn't observing the conversation, however, she was observing _him._

"Tell me," Erik demanded.

Emma sighed, eyes remote as she determined how, exactly, she should go about doing that.

"In my experience, the only way a telepath forgets anything is if they choose to erase it themselves or if something—or some_one_—has erased it for them. And since the only two telepaths in range are sitting in this room..."

Charles cleared his throat. "What Miss Frost is implying is that because she didn't tamper with my mind, _I_ must have."

Erik stared at him in complete incomprehension.

"Why would you do that?" he asked, incredulously. "Why would anybody do that?"

"Haven't you ever experienced something you wished you could forget?" Charles answered him philosophically.

A storm gathered force in Erik's cobalt eyes as he met Charles' gaze and held it. He spoke with an air of finality.

"Never."

Charles took in the downward slant of Erik's eyebrows, the turn of his mouth that reflected confusion, anger and no small amount of pain. Emma was a silent witness from her alcove, diverting her attention between their conversation and her nails, the latter of which appeared more enthralling. Charles' interest started and finished with Erik.

Erik's features steeled into a stony mask as they continued to watch one another. His thoughts, the details of which Charles was not privy to, were racing a mile a minute, at staggering speeds. Another tense second passed, and Erik looked away.

Charles' fingers twitched. He had to resist the urge to place them to his temple and _make_ Erik look at him again. He swallowed, feeling nausea rise to the pit of his stomach. The impulse was strong, almost blinding.

"So, what about before the facility was destroyed?" Emma asked with total indifference. "Do you remember anything then?"

He felt a lead weight settle itself at the pit of his stomach. "I…"

He tried to speak but couldn't. How could he? There was no way he'd be able to tell them the truth, not in any way they'd understand it. He'd made a promise, one he intended to keep. People's lives could be depending on him, on what he knew.

Him. Charles Xavier.

_Not_ the Brotherhood. Their involvement could only end badly.

When Charles next took stock of his surroundings, he was being watched by not one, but two pairs of eyes. Emma stood stationary, but Erik had continued to pace in quick, short bursts. At the end of every turn, his eyes would settle on Charles.

He clenched his fingers tightly in his lap, hands balling in to fists. In the end, however, he sighed. His voice, when he spoke, sounded as weary as he felt. "I… I don't know, I told you. I can't remember—"

"You're lying." Emma rejoined immediately, examining the cuticle on her right index finger with disdain. Charles gave her a sidelong glance, to which she shrugged and said, "Even if I could read your mind, sugar, I wouldn't need to. Your voice says it all."

"I'm not lying," Charles said crossly. "I genuinely cannot remember—"

Erik paused in his pacing.

"You're protecting somebody," he stated, almost in awe of this realisation. "Who is it?"

Charles scoffed. He knew it wasn't polite, wasn't the done thing, but he reached the end of his tether and something had to give. Since that something wasn't Charles, it had to be Erik and Emma. Having accusations thrown into one's face was headache-inducing and hurtful, regardless of whether they were true or not.

"If I was indeed 'protecting somebody' as you say, why on god's green earth would I tell you who they are?"

Erik slammed his hand down on the table—hard. The sound echoed across the room with a loud, resounding _clang._

"DAMN IT, CHARLES!" Erik roared, voice blazing with fury. "While we sit here arguing semantics, the CIA is out there ripping mutants away from their lives for no other reason than that they were born! They could be injured, or dying. The government could be _torturing them,_ right at this moment, beating them until they submit. If a single one of them dies because of what you know then it's on your head Charles. _Your head._"

Erik's hand clamped down on him as he spoke, drawing Charles bodily towards him. Charles flinched violently as pain rippled through him, from the place where Erik's fingers tightened around his wrist. He gasped for breath, pushing at Erik's shoulder ineffectually with his other hand. Erik froze at Charles' attempt to break free and released him in an instant, staggering back with widening eyes.

Charles studied his feet like they were the most important thing in the world to him.

"Charles," Erik rasped, sounding as if all the air had fled his lungs. It wasn't out of anger this time, he knew, but something stronger. Erik sounded desperate. He sounded afraid. "Did they—?"

He cut himself off. Charles' head snapped up to meet his gaze, the color draining out of his cheeks at what he saw. Erik's expression was one of helpless pain, something Charles mirrored on his own face as he looked away. He swallowed.

"No. No. They didn't."

His voice caught, and Charles shut his eyes. He didn't look at Erik. He couldn't. His fingers twitched. He ran them over his wrist, over the raised skin there, trying as hard as he could not to slip straight back into the memories, the dreams.

"Not that this isn't deliciously tragic to watch, but we have a job to do," Emma snapped, reaching the end of her patience. She pushed off the wall she was leaning on and sauntering towards them with quick, graceful steps. "Tell us, if you can, Professor… did someone help you escape?"

"Emma," growled Erik, in a warning tone.

"What? I'm not the one who just accosted him," she retorted, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in his direction.

"This is ridiculous," Charles interjected, lifting his hands towards the both of them. Erik's eyes lingered on Charles' wrist, covered by the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. The pained look was back, causing Charles to sigh. "Erik didn't do anything. I'm _fine._"

Emma rolled her eyes, long past caring.

"Just answer the question," she drawled, looking almost bored. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek when she blinked, casting a shadow across her skin. Charles had noticed she blinked often, almost as if she did it with the hope that the next time she opened her eyes she would be somewhere different. Or in the same place, with less stupid people.

He lowered his hands, walked over to a chair and sat down. His legs were beginning to ache under the strain of standing. It felt fantastic, but he didn't want to overdo it. Having the reinforced metal at his back grounded him. He crossed his legs and leaned into it, allowing it to support his weight. Erik took a seat opposite him, and Emma positioned herself on the very edge of one at his side, clear in her allegiance.

Charles looked at the two of them, then at his hands, and then away into the distance.

"Yes," he said, breathing out in a rush. When he received two expectant stares for his trouble, he elaborated. "Yes, someone helped me escape. The same someone who was responsible for the destruction of the CIA complex and the four-hundred or so people trapped inside of it, or so I'm told. Before you ask— no, I don't know where they are."

Emma made an amused sound in the back of her throat. Charles resisted the urge to sigh, but only just.

To Erik, he said earnestly: "I will help all I can, but I barely remember anything so I don't know what good it will be. Everything happened so quickly, I was just… I was still struggling to catch up."

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, unimpressed.

"Is there anything else?" Erik asked, gruff and distant. The change startled him. Erik was closing the discussion with a detachedness that was almost clinical. Charles allowed his confusion to show on his face, but Erik wouldn't look at him. His grey eyes were hard and indecipherable. What Charles wanted more than anything was to reach out and touch Erik's mind like he used to, a show of kinship and concern. But the gesture wasn't welcome now. Even without his helmet, Erik's mind was sealed off to him. It hurt, more than any phantom pain ever could.

"I tried my hardest," he began, "to burn everything I saw into my memory. I catalogued as much as possible in hope I'd find a loophole, something they'd missed, an opportunity to escape or at least be outside long enough to send a message."

Erik's eyes darted to his with a renewed spark of interest. He leaned in and motioned with one hand for Charles to continue. "And?"

Charles met his gaze and held it. Then he said, simply: "I discovered something. The CIA's dirty little secret, if you will. Only…"

He breathed in, deeply, allowing the air to settle in his lungs. He opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them, and breathed out. Erik's elbows were on the table, body craned over them. Emma, on the other hand, had settled back into her chair and was studying him with cold, grey eyes. He watched them watch him and laughed. It was a short, confused sound, like he had no idea what he was doing. He really, really didn't. This was toeing the very line he had hoped to avoid altogether. He only hoped it wasn't too late to play damage control later on.

"Only what, Charles?" Erik pressed, softly.

Charles' eyes flitted away, focusing on the smooth, rounded edges of the table before him. He pressed his fingers to the corner of it, thumb rubbing circles along its peak, the metal warming under his fingertips. When he spoke, it was to the tabletop.

"Only, I don't know _what_ I saw."

_tbc_

* * *

For anyone who is interested, this is the first part of five, plus an epilogue. Everything's been written, it's just a matter of polishing it. Thanks for reading!


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